


Authentic Embellishment

by dysonrules



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysonrules/pseuds/dysonrules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is at a costume party, bored witless and waiting for Cobb to hurry up with wooing his girlfriend so they can leave. He soon discovers that alcohol and attractive gladiators shouldn't mix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: It was pointed out to me on LJ that Arthur's drunken willingness could be considered dub-con, which I don't personally agree with, but to each his own. If you feel that people cannot be held responsible for decisions they make while under the influence, then you might not want to read this. But for the record, Arthur is not as drunk as he appears.

Author's Note: It was pointed out to me on LJ that Arthur's drunken willingness could be considered dub-con, which I don't personally agree with, but to each his own. If you feel that people cannot be held responsible for decisions they make while under the influence, then you might not want to read this. But for the record, Arthur is not as drunk as he appears.

 **PART ONE - ARTHUR**

Arthur sighed and took another drink of his rapidly warming beer. This party was even more ridiculous than expected and Arthur's only form of entertainment was imagining the ways he would get rid of Cobb for dragging him here. In costume.

Of course Cobb had disappeared five minutes after arrival in order to woo his lady love somewhere in the recesses of this ungodly enormous house.

Arthur watched as a potted plant met its doom when a drunken partygoer stumbled into the table it rested upon. The man looked down at the tangled remains of planter, dirt, and shredded leaves and mumbled, "Oops" before staggering down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Arthur debated cleaning up the mess only because it offended his sensibilities, but he didn't know the residents (like most of the partiers, he assumed) and did not want to be mistaken for someone who lived here and be questioned mercilessly about the whereabouts of the bathrooms. Better to lurk in the shadows near the curving marble staircase, sip warm beer, and plot Cobb's demise.

Unfortunately, he couldn't leave until Cobb returned with the fucking car keys because their apartment was too far to walk from here. Plus his sandals were uncomfortable.

"Greetings, Emperor. Caesar, I presume?"

Arthur turned in surprise at the voice and saw a man standing on the other side of the bushy palm that shielded him from view. Arthur leaned out slightly to see that the newcomer was dressed in partial Roman armor, complete with shield and helmet, and held a tall spear in one hand.

"No, definitely not Caesar," Arthur replied. "I am Marcus Tullius Cicero." It's possible his tone was slightly condescending.

The man shifted his spear to his left hand and stuck out a his right. "Spartacus. Pleased to meet you."

Automatically, and almost immediately wishing he hadn't, Arthur put out his hand and the man shook it vigorously. His grip was strong and seemed confident and certain. Arthur clenched his hand in order to demonstrate the same. The man did not release his hand; instead he walked around the plant—nearly tearing off a few branches with the spear point—until he stood in front of Arthur.

Arthur's gaze drifted over the muscular chest, which was crossed with a single, wide leather strap. A smattering of hair curled between prominent nipples that did not beg to be tasted. _Not at all_ , Arthur told himself sternly.

"Marcellus Tullius Cicero," the man repeated and Arthur noted that he had a delightful British accent. "Why? Poly-sci major?"

Arthur scowled, but gave up trying to tug his hand free, for the moment. The man was standing far too close for comfort. Arthur could smell the faintest hint of cologne—or perhaps it was soap—as well as something purely masculine.

"Architecture," Arthur admitted. The man's hand relaxed slightly and Arthur snatched his away with a snap, not caring that it looked childish. He wished he could take a step back and escape the all-encompassing aura of (yes, he admitted it) sensuality exuded by the man, but his backside was already touching the edge of the hallway table, twin to the one formerly holding the toppled plant.

The man only smirked at the loss of Arthur's grip. "Ah," he said as though he had just discovered the secrets of the universe, "An artist."

The word sounded pornographic when uttered between lips that should have been illegal outside the porn industry. They were clearly visible between the cheek-guards of the Roman-style helmet he wore. Arthur immediately began to think of uses for those lips and he felt warmth steal up his neck to tint his cheeks. _Oh hell no, I am_ not _blushing_ , he reprimanded himself sternly. He tried to cover it with words, his best, and usually only, weapon.

"I think everyone should have a working knowledge of the classics." Arthur knew he sounded pretentious, but the man made him nervous. Judging by his physique, he was probably a jock, riding through school on an athletic scholarship and fucking everything that moved.

"Intellectual arrogance," Spartacus said with a smile. The fact that his teeth were not perfectly straight should not have been a turn-on. "I like that."

Arthur took a quick swig of his beer to cover his discomfiture. The man had to lean back a bit to avoid the bottle banging him on the chin.

"My name is Eames," he volunteered and took the bottle when Arthur lowered it. He lifted it to his own sinful lips and tipped his head back to drink. It should not have felt so intimate. Eames was stealing his beer, for fuck's sake. And tasting Arthur's lips by proxy. To his annoyance, Arthur realized his cock eagerly approved of the sexual carnival promised by Eames' entire being; it was already half-hard.

"I have to go," Arthur said, deciding flight was better than valor in this particular instance. The toga he wore would do nothing at all to hide his arousal, should it happen to become full-blown, which seemed all too likely if he remained in the presence of the man dressed in a leather skirt and very little else.

"Wait!" Eames said and shot his arm out to halt Arthur's advance. Arthur felt it against his lower abdomen for a moment, corded with muscle. He stepped back so quickly he nearly walked into the plant.

"Eames!" someone called from down the hallway. Arthur's captor turned his head even though his stance indicated he planned to block any attempt at Arthur's escape, despite the distraction. Arthur debated pushing past him anyway, but the person who had called out approached and demolished that idea. "Oh, I see you've met Arthur," she said.

Arthur glared at her.

" _Arthur_ ," Eames repeated and turned back to look at him, lips curving in what could only be a triumphant smirk.

"Eames, can you be a dear and fix my headdress?" she asked. "It's falling off and I'm about to throw it at someone. Here, Arthur, hold my drink. And my staff. I need to adjust my panty hose before they slide down to my knees and trip me."

"I was just leaving," Arthur said, refusing to take the items she held out to him.

"You can't leave. You came with Cobb, right? He left ten minutes ago on a 'romantic moonlight walk' with Mal."

Eames crowded up against Arthur, ostensibly to reach past him and place the nearly empty beer bottle on the table. Arthur crowded back into the plant even more. Luckily, Ariadne's arrival had killed his growing erection.

"Shit," he said and took Ariadne's items.

Eames, thankfully, leaned his spear against the wall and walked behind Ariadne. He lifted his hands to the snake-adorned tiara that rested atop her black Cleopatra wig. Ariadne wriggled and tugged at her skirt in a very unladylike manner, obviously tugging at her recalcitrant hosiery.

"So, how do you know Arthur?" Eames asked casually and gave him a wink.

"He's in my Urban and Regional Planning class. And Trigonometry."

"Your pins are coming free," Eames said. "I've fixed them as best I can, but I've only bought you some time. They'll be out in a half-hour."

"It's all right," she said and took her staff and plastic cup from Arthur. "I plan to stalk the guy whose parents own this place. Can you believe all this?" She indicated their surroundings with a wave of her arm, sloshing pink liquid onto the marble floor. "Oops. I made a mess. I'll go find Saito and apologize for messing up his house." She grimaced in what Arthur assumed was meant to be a leering fashion and staggered away.

"The toga looks better on you, darling," Eames said and pulled off his helmet. Arthur stared as Eames combed his fingers through tousled sandy-colored hair. "I have helmet-head, yeah?" He placed the helmet on the table next to the bottle and then looped his arm through Arthur's. "Since your friend Cobb has left you stranded, let's say we get another drink, shall we?"

Arthur could not think of a polite way to refuse, and sent a mental pout toward Ariadne for curtailing his escape. Instead of heading for the kitchen, however, Eames guided Arthur in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked suspiciously when Eames tried to tug him up a marble staircase.

"Trust me," Eames said with a roguish smile that was anything but trustworthy.

"Not likely," Arthur muttered, but Eames' hand slipped down and fastened over his. Arthur was so surprised that he was halfway up the stairs before he acknowledged it. Eames' hand was warm and his fingers gripped with just enough pressure to pull without causing pain.

Eames did not let go when they reached the top of the stairs, but instead led him to a door at the end of the wide, carpeted hall. When he turned the handle, Arthur hesitated, expecting a bedroom. He was about to give Eames a forceful piece of his mind when he saw the room was not a bedchamber, but a dark-paneled library.

Eames gave his hand a squeeze and let go before closing the door. Arthur tried not to feel trapped. He covered his discomfiture by walking into the room and looking at some of the leather-bound volumes on the shelves.

Eames walked straight to a cabinet on the wall that displayed dozens of bottles of alcohol. Arthur left off looking at books in order to admire Eames from the rear. His back was delicious, muscular in all the right ways, and tapering down to a pair of hipbones that jutted from the leather. After a moment, Arthur realized what Eames was doing.

"You're breaking into the liquor cabinet?"

"Shhh, this is a delicate maneuver, darling. I don't want to destroy the lock, I only want to—ah, there we go." The glass doors swung open.

Arthur opened his mouth and then closed it. Eames was a thief. On top of being a smug, over-muscled, irritating… something or other, he was also a thief. Arthur would do well to stay far away from him.

"Here we are. Glenfiddich. Saito's family does have some exquisite taste." Eames opened the bottle, selected two old-fashioned glasses, and splashed some of the amber liquid in each. He replaced the bottle and carried the glasses to Arthur, who took one, reluctantly. Eames had already poured it, so it would be a waste not to drink it. And he really didn't care for the cheap beer one of the frat boys had brought for the party.

"Cheers," Eames said and tapped his glass against Arthur's. His gaze seemed to burn more than the whisky going down.

"What is this?" Arthur asked in a rasping tone. It was very smooth, and very potent.

"Forty year old Scotch. I believe it's around two thousand dollars a bottle."

Arthur would have choked if he'd been drinking. "Two thousand? They'll kill us."

Eames rolled his eyes. "Hardly. Do you think they would even notice if the bottle went missing? I'm sure there are some in there that cost much more. Now drink up so that I can take advantage of you." Eames' lips curved again before he took a sip of the whisky.

Arthur glared at him and moved around the prominent mahogany desk to seat himself in the dark leather chair. It reclined pleasantly and seemed to cradle him in comfort. The rich really did have it good, he decided.

Rather than sit down like a normal person, Eames walked to Arthur's side of the desk and leaned back against the edge of it, giving Arthur a far-too-tantalizing view of Eames' thighs. For the first time Arthur noticed a short sword strapped to Eames' right hip. He decided not to mention it rather than risk sword-related innuendo.

"So," Arthur said, deciding that small talk was the best bet and a surefire way to find reasons not to like Eames. "Your major?"

Eames shrugged. "Anthropology."

Arthur blinked at him, certain he was joking.

Eames smiled, apparently sensing his disbelief. "With a minor in Psychology. I like to study people, pet. They are fascinating creatures. Take you, for instance. You have intriguing layers."

Arthur lifted his lip in a sneer and took a drink to cover his mental re-evaluation of the man. Apparently he wasn't a dumb jock, after all. "Really? You've discerned that from all of ten minutes in my company? Do enlighten me." He was hoping to call Eames' bluff. The possibility that an intelligent brain lurked beneath those beautiful eyes, luscious lips, and amazing body was already doing dangerous things to Arthur's libido. The strong alcohol, on top of the too-much beer he'd already imbibed, was giving him a lightheaded feeling. He suspected it would be wise to put the glass down.

"For one thing, you take yourself far too seriously. You feel superior to everyone around you, which is why you were lurking in the hallway alone rather than mingling with your fellow peers.

"I do not!" Arthur protested hotly.

Eames smirked and Arthur flushed and looked away. He had assumed he was intellectually superior to Eames, even though he would never admit to it. "You have an abiding love of history, as is notable by the care taken with your outfit. You normally wear a watch, evidenced by the tan line on your arm, and yet you have removed it and replaced it with a braided bracelet probably made from reeds indigenous to Italy. It's lovely, by the way."

Arthur swallowed and resisted the urge to hide the bracelet between his hip and the padded arm of the leather chair. He had been quite proud of it, but it seemed a bit ridiculous once Eames pointed it out.

"Despite your tendencies toward pretension, you have a kind heart."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "How do you figure that?"

"Because despite the fact that I make you nervous and you did not particularly want to come upstairs with me, you could not think of a polite way to refuse. Therefore, here we are."

"You don't make me nervous," Arthur lied.

Eames set his glass on the desk and loomed over him suddenly, placing both hands on the arms of the chair and insinuating his sandaled feet between Arthur's. He nudged Arthur's legs open with his knees, causing the fabric of Arthur's toga to fall open at the side, exposing one leg all the way to his hip. Arthur suppressed a gasp.

"Don't I?" Eames asked. "Not even a little?"

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, even though his brain seemed to have gone offline and his mouth was suddenly so dry he might not have gotten words out if he could have drummed them up, but it was a moot effort anyway, because Eames leaned down even farther and tasted Arthur's lips.

It was a slow, delicious caress. Eames nibbled first and then traced over Arthur's lips with his tongue, inviting them to part. Helplessly, Arthur let him in, tipping his head back and opening his mouth for Eames to enter with slow, methodical intensity. He tasted of fine whisky and something heady and almost dangerous.

Heat flooded Arthur's body, especially when he felt Eames' hand on his thigh, climbing higher until it rested at the juncture of Arthur's leg and torso, with his thumb caressing the sensitive flesh there, only inches from Arthur's very-interested cock. Arthur realized he would very much like Eames to move his hand that short distance and touch him even more intimately. He made a soft sound and shifted in his seat, flushing at his own wantonness.

 _Drunk_ , he rationalized. _I am very, very drunk_.

Eames took the hint, sliding his hand beneath the white fabric and cupping Arthur's hardness. "Oh God, Arthur, I adore your insistence on authenticity," he murmured against Arthur's lips before lapping at him again. His fingers stroked over Arthur's bare cock—they did not wear undergarments in ancient Rome, after all, and swiped his thumb over the head.

Arthur made an undignified sound and his hips bucked upward, into Eames' strong fist. Eames stopped kissing him and looked down, gaze fixing on Arthur's cock, now visible with the toga having fallen completely open. Arthur watched as Eames' hand stroked up and down his hard length; their panting gasps mingled.

Voices sounded beyond the door and Eames froze. His eyes met Arthur's and then his jaw set and he twitched the fabric of Arthur's toga back over his lap before straightening and stepping aside to put himself between Arthur and the door just as it swung open. A giggling couple staggered inside and then halted.

"Whoopsie," the girl said and tittered. "This one is occupied, too. And no bed."

The man was wrapped around her and one hand appeared to be up her short skirt. She was dressed as some sort of cat-woman, with pointed ears attached to a headband gone askew. The man wore a Tarzan outfit, a garish leopard-print loincloth and little else.

"Shall we continue this elsewhere?" Eames asked Arthur and held out a hand.

Arthur swallowed and ignored Eames' hand as he got to his feet. He managed not to sway dizzily and he drained his glass before setting it on the table. Thankfully, the interruption had killed his erection. "I should find Cobb and go home," he said quickly.

He rounded the desk, ignoring Eames, whose expression looked slightly _hurt_ , if Arthur could judge properly in his inebriated state, and bypassed the clingy couple. He entered the hallway and hurried down the stairs, holding tightly to the railing when he misjudged a step and nearly tumbled headlong.

A strong hand gripped his elbow. "Careful," Eames warned. "Marble generally wins over bones in a collision." Eames guided down the remainder of the stairs and then refused to let go, taking Arthur's hand once more. "Come on, no need to wait for Cobb. I'll take you home."

"But, you're drunk," Arthur protested. He knew Cobb wouldn't be drinking, not if he was with Mal.

"I'm afraid not, darling. I had one beer and two swallows of whisky. Add that to the constitution of a Percheron and you have one not-inebriated Eames."

To Arthur's annoyance, Ariadne was standing next to the doorway chatting with Saito in a flirty fashion. Eames passed them with a nod to Saito, dragging Arthur by the hand. "Lovely party, Saito. Ariadne, tell Cobb I'm taking Arthur home."

Eames opened the door and Ariadne said dreamily, "All right. Have a nice time."

They were halfway to the street when Ariadne shouted behind them, "Wait! Eames, you can't take Arthur home!"

Arthur turned his head to see her hurrying down the path toward them, but Eames didn't pause. "Be a dear and grab my helmet and spear, Ariadne," Eames called. "I'll pick them up from you later."

"Eames!" she yelled as Eames opened the door of a compact red Audi.

"Get in, pet, I'll handle Ariadne." Eames released his hand and started down the path toward Ariadne, where he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and escorted her back toward the mansion, murmuring low enough that Arthur couldn't hear.

He frowned, standing between the seat and the open door. If Ariadne thought it was a bad idea, he probably really shouldn't go with Eames. It was hard to think through the haze of alcohol and even harder to get past the recollection of Eames' hand on his cock. It twitched, swelling once more at the mere memory, and that decided him.

"I'm a fucking adult," he muttered and threw himself into the seat. "I can make my own decisions." He slammed the car door with finality and watched as Eames jogged away from Ariadne, whose arms were akimbo. She looked displeased. Arthur lifted a hand and waved to her cheerfully to show her that he would be fine.

Eames slipped into the driver's seat and inserted a key. "Right. That's settled, then. She'll tell Cobb and everything will be fine." He turned the car around and drove down the street. Arthur watched the passing houses for a minute or two and then turned his attention to Eames.

"You all right, love?" Eames asked, turning to look at Arthur as he stopped at a red light.

Arthur grinned at him and Eames stared at him until the light turned green and the car behind them honked. Eames looked away and concentrated on the road. After a minute he said, "Arthur. You have dimples."

Arthur frowned. "You don't like them?" He shifted in his seat in order to watch Eames more closely. His bare chest was lovely and Arthur thought about reaching out to touch it.

"I love your dimples. You should smile more often. I shall have to work on that."

Arthur grinned again and then sighed and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. He leaned his head back against the seat and drifted off.

"Arthur, love, wake up. We're here. You can't sleep in the car. It's going to get cold tonight."

Arthur blinked and allowed Eames to tug him from the car. It was already cold. Arthur shivered and frowned at being forced from the nice warm interior. Eames radiated heat—Arthur gravitated toward him and wrapped his arms around Eames' waist. Eames pulled him close and then walked him around a corner and up a small set of wooden steps.

"Where're we?" Arthur mumbled.

"My house, darling. I'm only leasing it, of course, and it's very small, but I have no annoying roommates to contend with."

"Good," Arthur said against Eames' chest. He felt lovely and smelled delightful. Eames fumbled with the key and got the door open. They practically fell inside because Arthur's feet became tangled. Eames eased him onto the couch.

"Stay," he said and held out a hand as if to encourage Arthur to remain where he was like a disobedient pet. "I need to shut the door."

Arthur sank into the cushions and smirked as Eames returned to the door to retrieve his key that was still in the lock. His legs were beautiful. It was a pity Arthur couldn't see his arse under the leather gladiator skirt. He would have to do something to remedy that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PART TWO - EAMES**

**PART TWO - EAMES**

Eames shut the door and turned round to see Arthur looking very much like the cat who had cornered the canary. Eames swallowed and acknowledged that he was having second thoughts about bringing Arthur back to his house. It had been delightful in Saito's study, but Arthur had still been coherent then. During the drive it had become obvious that poor Arthur was smashed.

"Let me get you some water, darling," Eames offered. "Hangover prevention, you know."

Eames hurried through the archway into his small kitchen. He paused with one hand on the handle of the refrigerator and rested his forehead against the cool metal of the door. Bloody hell, what a time to get an attack of conscience. Arthur was… _fuck_ , Arthur was gorgeous, even dressed up in a bloody toga with a crown of leaves on his head.

Kissing him had been delicious and then when he had offered himself… His heart rate quickened at the memory and his cock pushed against the leather of his faux Roman skirt.

Eames wrenched open the fridge with enough force to rattle the beer bottles in the door. He cursed, shaking with the effort to keep from walking back into the other room and taking everything Arthur had to offer, and damn the consequences.

He selected a carton of juice and closed the door only to nearly jump out of his skin when he saw Arthur leaning against the wall next to the refrigerator.

"You were taking too long," Arthur said in a purring tone. "I missed you."

Eames forced a smile and backed away before turning around and placing the juice on the counter. He wrenched open a cabinet and stared into it. "Coming right along. This won't take but a minute." His mind was completely blank as his eyes tracked over the assorted mismatched mugs and glasses. After a moment he realized he had no idea what he was looking for.

A hand drifted by his face and picked up a small juice glass. "Will this one work?" Arthur asked, standing far too close for comfort.

"Yes!" Eames said brightly and took it from him after closing the cabinet with a bang. "Brilliant. Thank you." He made a show of unscrewing the plastic cap from the waxed cardboard carton and then he poured the juice into the glass, spilling it all over the counter when Arthur's cool fingers touched the small of his back just above the leather belt of his gladiator uniform.

"You're jumpy," Arthur commented.

"Your hands are cold," Eames lied.

"Sorry," Arthur replied but did not move his fingers.

Eames handed the glass to Arthur and then spun away from his touch in order to walk to the sink and grab the washcloth that he'd slung over the faucet earlier that morning. It had dried into a stiff U shape. Eames ran some water over it and wrung it out before walking back and wiping up the spilled juice. Arthur sipped at the glass, watching him.

Eames scrubbed at the spot so long he thought Arthur might think he was OCD. Just as he tossed the cloth back into the sink, Arthur crowded close to him. "This juice is good. Want some?"

He held the glass up appealingly. Eames noticed he had lost the leaf coronet somewhere along the way. Arthur's hair stuck up charmingly in places, likely snagged by the departing crown. Arthur raised a brow and pushed the glass toward Eames' lips like a child trying to get his playmate to accept a taste.

Eames obediently took the glass and downed a gulp. Arthur put his hands on Eames' waist and Eames nearly jumped out of his skin. Juice sloshed out of the glass and onto his chest. Eames gave up and slammed the damn thing onto the counter just as Arthur started to lap up the spilled juice with his tongue.

Eames allowed him four delicious strokes—bloody hell, Arthur was _licking_ him—before he gripped Arthur's shoulders and pushed him firmly away.

Arthur pouted. "What's wrong?"

Eames groaned. What was wrong was that he wanted to turn Arthur around, lift the hem of his tunic over his arse, and fuck him over every surface in the kitchen. Which would be _wrong_ because Arthur was far too drunk to have any idea what he was doing. And also, Ariadne would remove Eames' testicles with a rusty garden tool. She had specifically mentioned it. Thrice.

"This leather," Eames said, scrambling for an excuse that wouldn't make him seem like a schizophrenic nutter. "It chafes."

"Well, then, we should get you out of it." Arthur's voice dripped with seduction and Eames realized belatedly that he had said the completely wrong thing if he planned to cool off Arthur's drunken libido.

As Arthur's hands fumbled with the buckle of his belt, Eames changed his mind and decided he had said the perfect thing, possibly the most perfect thing in the history of forever, because Arthur was undressing him and—the image of Ariadne brandishing something out of a horror movie over his nether parts caused him to grab Arthur's hands just before he pulled the buckle free.

"Fuck me, I am schizophrenic," he muttered.

"What's that?" Arthur asked with a smile, trying to tug his hands free, no doubt so that he could put them back on Eames, which Eames' cock wanted very very much. When Eames wouldn't let go, Arthur merely stepped closer, trapping their hands them and placing his lips close to Eames' ear. "Did you say 'fuck me'? Because I would very much like to do that."

A rush of lust left Eames feeling weak in the knees. Ariadne and her fucking rusty garden tool be damned. "Bedroom," he said hoarsely. "Now."

Arthur smirked and withdrew his hands before turning around and leaving the kitchen. There was only one possible location for the bedroom—down the short hallway and through one of the two doors (the other leading to the bathroom)—so Arthur strode that direction as if he'd been there before. Eames followed helplessly.

Arthur stopped and looked around the room. Eames did the same, trying to see it through Arthur's eyes. It was thankfully neat, since Eames had hoped to get lucky at the party and bring back a date, although he hadn't realized he would be lucky enough to score someone like Arthur.

Without commenting on the state of Eames' bedroom, Arthur turned around. He had apparently been working at the fastener of the girdle holding his toga together, because the white mass of it fell to the floor in a slow spiral as he turned. Every bit of moisture in Eames' mouth evaporated when Arthur stood before him utterly naked.

"Well, Eames," he said, "This is where you wanted me, isn't it?"

Eames could only nod as Arthur stepped closer and put his hands on the leather once more. Eames did not protest. He kept his hands at his sides and allowed Arthur to work the buckles free, removing sword, scabbard, and finally leather skirt.

Arthur didn't bother to look down and examine Eames' rock-hard cock, but he did drop to his knees. Eames stopped breathing until he noticed Arthur was only untying the laces of Eames' sandals, which had been digging into his calves all night. The first set fell away and Arthur switched to the next one. Eames cock brushed against Arthur's cheek and Arthur looked up at him with a distinctly wicked glint in his eyes.

"These aren't very authen—"

Without finishing the sentence, Arthur completely enveloped Eames' cock, taking it to the root.

"Jesus!" Eames cried.

Arthur's hands curled around the back of Eames' thighs, holding him in place. He retreated down the length of Eames' cock until he reached the tip, which he mouthed as though trying to memorize the shape of it with his lips. His tongue slid over the tip and Eames thought his knees might buckle. His hands were clenched in Arthur's soft hair, although he didn't remember putting them there.

"Bed," Eames begged.

Arthur pulled away and gave him a look that sent a renewed rush of lust flooding through him. Eames realized he might be in over his head when Arthur growled, "Good idea. Get on the bed, slave."

Eames goggled at him. "What?"

"I'm a Roman citizen. You're a miserable gladiator. I own you. Now get on the bed."

Role-playing. Fuck, Eames could barely wrap his head around the fact that Arthur was even here and now he wanted to role-play. "Yes, sir," Eames said and let go of Arthur's hair. He sprawled on the bed obediently and wondered how he was going to explain this to Arthur in the morning. There was a bloody good chance he wouldn't remember a bit of it.

Arthur crawled over him in a predatory fashion and then perched between Eames' legs. He sat up straight with his thighs tucked underneath Eames' and his hands curved around Eames' knees. He slid them slowly down over Eames' legs until he reached the hipbones. His thumbs stroked there for a moment and Arthur said, "You're not what I expected."

Eames frowned, wondering if they were still role-playing. Should he make a quip about rebellious gladiators or ask Arthur what he meant? The moment passed when Arthur took hold of his cock with one hand and added, "This, however, is exactly what I expected."

Eames knew exactly how to respond to that. He grinned. "I was hoping that was better than expected."

Arthur scooted forward until his cock bumped against Eames' balls, and then he lifted it to press their pricks together. He wrapped both hands around the pair of them and smiled wolfishly, showing those amazing dimples and causing Eames to melt into a virtual puddle.

Arthur pumped his hands and took his gaze away from Eames' in order to watch. Eames lifted himself onto his elbows to do the same.

"You're uncut," Arthur murmured. "It's amazing." Eames swallowed hard, because he had never thought of that fact as particularly _amazing_ , but watching the red crown of his prick peeping through the paler flesh of his foreskin with every downward stroke of Arthur's fist was mesmerizing. And it felt incredible. Arthur's cock was every bit as beautiful, throbbing against Eames' with each touch of Arthur's hands.

Arthur made a groaning sound. "I need to taste it," he said and backed away, releasing his own cock but only shifting his grip on Eames' as he moved backward in order to bend down. His breath huffed over Eames' prick and he hovered there, shooting another glance at Eames, who hoped he didn't look quite as eager as he felt, waiting for those lips to descend. Arthur looked at him once more and there was no amusement there now, only a dark intensity that made something constrict in Eames' chest.

"Arthur," he said, making one last ditch effort to stop him from doing anything he might regret later, because Eames really, _really_ did not want regrets from Arthur. He wasn't sure exactly what he did want, but he was fairly certain it was something more than a single night of what could be, no doubt, mind-numbing sex.

Arthur pushed back Eames' foreskin with his fingers and then licked the crown of his cock like it was an ice lolly on a hot summer day. Eames collapsed onto the pillows with a gasp. His hips bucked upward, but Arthur held him down with one hand while the other assisted his mouth in turning Eames inside out.

Arthur licked and lapped and sucked with focused determination. Eames had received blow jobs before, but never like this.

"Arthur, _fuck_ ," Eames cried, raising himself onto his elbows against and struggling not to come. Arthur squeezed hard around the base of his cock and Eames groaned, shuddering as the pressure prevented his orgasm. "Oh god, you're an evil bastard."

"Silence, slave," Arthur growled before his tongue flick-flick-flicked over Eames' cockhead, driving him wild. His fingers gripped the blankets so tightly that one corner of the bedding had pulled away from the mattress and lay bunched on top.

Twice more Arthur brought him to the brink of orgasm before clamping down and withdrawing just long enough for the intensity to fade. Eames was covered in sweat. He panted mindlessly and had been reduced to begging sometime after the second denied release. Arthur was a sadistic, cruel, vicious little demon and Eames would tell him so, except he feared a single word other than "Please" would only cause Arthur to prolong his torment.

Arthur's fist sped up, pumping hard and fast, mouthing Eames cock, sometimes sucking, and sometimes merely slapping it against his reddened lips. His dark hair had fallen over his forehead and he looked like a gorgeous incubus sent to suck Eames soul out through his cock. _I'm going to die_ , Eames thought, shaking and gasping as he rushed toward the brink again. His balls were so hard, hot, and throbbing that he no longer felt them tighten in anticipation—he had passed anticipation long ago.

"Come for me, Eames," Arthur whispered against his cock and then sucked hard on the tip once more.

Eames lost all control. He thought he might have left the bed completely, so sharply did he arch against the mattress. His vision went completely white and the roaring in his ears sounded like a thundering herd. He screamed something aloud and then he was coming, whether down Arthur's throat or in his amazing mouth, or all over his own bloody abdomen, he had no idea. He only knew that it was a blessed, blessed relief and _fucking hell_ , the best orgasm he could ever remember having.

When Eames could see again, he found Arthur hovering over him with another smug grin, this one well-earned. Eames gripped a handful of his hair and dragged him down into a kiss, bruised his swollen mouth, needing to mark him. He wanted Arthur to look in the mirror for a week and remember Eames' cock in his mouth. He tasted himself as he plundered Arthur's hot, gorgeous mouth and realized that Arthur had swallowed after all. His kiss gentled and became something more subtle, teasing instead of claiming, giving instead of taking.

Arthur was still hard and needed seeing to.

Eames stopped kissing him and looked into his face for a moment. Arthur looked thoroughly rumpled and completely adorable. Eames smiled.

"Up," he said and let go of Arthur's hair in order to put his hands on Arthur's ribs and demonstrate where he wanted him to go. After a moment of resistance, Arthur got it. He crawled over Eames, lifting his knees over thighs and then tucking them under Eames' arms. Eames slid his hands over Arthur's thighs and up to cup his perfect arse. He gave it a squeeze and smiled up at Arthur, who now gripped the headboard.

Arthur's cock bumped into Eames' chin and Eames stopped watching Arthur's face, which had resumed his look of intense concentration. Eames grinned and lifted his head when Arthur adjusted the pillows, improving the angle. When Arthur returned his hands to the headboard, his cock stood at attention just before Eames' mouth. Perfect.

"Whenever you're ready, darling," Eames said softly, because this was Arthur's show.

Arthur licked his lips, moved forward slightly, and pushed his cock against Eames' mouth. Eames kept his lips shut and Arthur drew his cock over them, smearing precome as if painting a gloss there. Eames' put out his tongue to taste the liquid, and met the tip of Arthur's cock.

Arthur made a soft sound and Eames opened his mouth and suckled it. God, it was smooth and beautiful and not so thick it would stretch his mouth unpleasantly. Arthur allowed him to swirl his tongue around the head several times before he pushed in deeper, moving slowly. He pulled out and back in as if experimenting, so Eames used his tongue, flattening it on the underside and wrapping it around the head when it neared his lips.

Arthur pumped into him, still gently, not going too deep, and Eames allowed it, although he sucked hard every time Arthur withdrew, earning a lovely noise that Arthur was probably not even aware he made. After a bit of that, Eames let go of Arthur's arse with his right hand and opened his mouth wider to insert two fingers alongside Arthur's cock. Arthur stilled, obviously wondering what he was doing.

Eames stroked along Arthur's hard length, still teasing it with his tongue on the underside, until his fingers were wet. Then he removed them and put his hand back on Arthur's arse, this time spreading his cheeks wide and reaching into the crack to swirl one wet finger over his tight arsehole.

Arthur arched gorgeously and unconsciously thrust forward with an "Ungh" sound. Encouraged, Eames sucked harder on the cock in his mouth and circled Arthur's hole with his fingers before slipping his index finger inside to the first knuckle.

Arthur jolted and rammed the back of Eames' throat, but he had been fully prepared for it and only relaxed to take as much of it as possible. Fuck, he had never really enjoyed sucking cock, despite the number of people commenting that his mouth seemed to be made for it, but Arthur was something special. The sight of him, body taut and quivering above him, would be imprinted on his memory forever.

"God, Eames. Eames, I—" Arthur's words were groaned and he seemed to be trying to resist… something, but Eames tightened his grip on Arthur's arse and pushed the finger in deeper. Arthur cried out and thrust back against it, easing the pressure on Eames' throat for a moment, but only a moment. He pushed forward again as if to withdraw from Eames' intrusion, but Eames followed and added a second finger.

Arthur made a hitching, gasping noise and froze, blocking Eames' air flow completely, but Eames didn't move, allowing him to adjust. After four slow heartbeats the need for air began to clamour at Eames' lungs. Arthur seemed to realize he was choking him and pulled back quickly, which was perfect. He impaled himself on Eames' fingers, burying them completely.

Eames filled his lungs quickly, breathing through his nose, in and out, feeling the panicky feeling of being unable to breathe subside. He twisted his fingers slightly, sending Arthur forward once more. After that, it got easier. Arthur figured out a rhythm, fucking Eames' mouth in front and himself on Eames' fingers in the rear and it was brilliant. Eames took him deeper and deeper, swallowing him whole, not caring that his throat would be raw and his voice would be gone the next day, not caring about anything other than the fucking sounds Arthur was making and the incredible feel of him.

Arthur's movements became more frantic, less in control, and when Eames' finally located his prostate, Arthur made the most amazing mewling noise, shuddered against Eames' hands, and came explosively down his throat. Eames eagerly swallowed every drop, ignoring the blackness licking at the edges of his vision because he hadn't managed quite deep enough breaths on Arthur's last few strokes.

Arthur's shudders seemed to go on forever and Eames' shoved his fingers down one more time, coaxing one more spasm from him before Arthur pulled out of his mouth. Eames gasped for air, shaking with exertion. His arm ached from the awkward angle, but he was loathe to take his fingers from Arthur's arse—he wanted to leave them there permanently.

Arthur sagged against the headboard and Eames pressed a kiss against his breastbone before reluctantly freeing Arthur from his impalement. Arthur rolled away and sprawled next to him, panting. "Holy shit," he said quietly.

"Holy, indeed," Eames agreed on a whisper. His voice was hoarse and barely audible and his throat ached. "I believe I shall build the Holy Church of Arthur. My new calling."

Arthur snorted a laugh and reached out to splay a hand on Eames' chest. The gesture seemed almost affectionate and Eames covered it with his own hand. Arthur's eyes fluttered closed and Eames reluctantly let go to grab the corner of the comforter he kept folded at the foot of the bed for extra warmth. Most of it had fallen to the floor and the rest of the bedclothes were a tangled mess. He dragged the comforter over them, glad of its bulk—they didn't really need the rest.

To his surprise, Arthur snuggled close to him. Eames tried to push away the thought that Arthur was probably still blissfully drunk, and simply wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly. There would be time enough to deal with the fallout tomorrow.

(Or, yanno, when Dyson gets around to writing the sequel.) :D


	3. Authentic Embellishment Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ARBITRARY EVASION**

**ARBITRARY EVASION**

 **ARTHUR**

Arthur fought his way through a sleep-induced fog and gradually took in his surroundings without opening his eyes. The first thing he noticed was a recurring warm puff of air on the back on his neck, quickly followed by the feel of an arm lying across his waist. He registered the knowledge without moving, slowly dredging through sluggish memories of the night before.

Eames.

 _Oh God_.

A rush of heat filled his face and he opened his eyes, nearly gasping at the memory of what they had done. Arthur had practically _attacked him_ in the kitchen. He had been drunk, but not so drunk he didn't know what he was doing. It had been Eames bending over, one hand on the lower half of the refrigerator door as he perused the contents that had been Arthur's downfall. The sight of those luscious thighs beneath the leather of the gladiator skirt, bared nearly to his crotch, displaying just a hint of the curve of his ass… It had sent Arthur's already raging libido into overdrive.

Arthur drew a shaky breath, remembering what had followed. Eames' amazing cock and his even more incredible mouth… Arthur's dick woke up with a suddenness that was almost painful. It very much remembered the feel of that sinful mouth, those lips sliding up and down, the tip hitting the back of Eames' throat over and over…

With a burst of near-panic, Arthur flung himself upright. The arm snaked away from him and he turned quickly to look at Eames, who sighed and muttered something unintelligible before curling his arm under himself and pushing more deeply into the pillows. Then he lay still.

Arthur's heart pounded and he waited another minute before rising and moving away from the bed, hoping the slight creak of springs didn't awaken Eames. He nearly tripped over a sandal as he moved, since his attention was fixed on the tanned flesh of Eames' shoulder. He looked down to see one of Eames' gladiator sandals atop a white pile of fabric—his toga.

Fuck, he needed to pee. He picked up the toga and slung the material around his hips in a parody of coverage, considering his prick was so hard it jutted before him like a compass needle. He left the bedroom and crossed the hallway to the bathroom where he shut the door carefully, hoping it didn't creak.

It was thankfully silent, hinges obviously well-oiled. Arthur stood over the toilet, willing his erection away. _Don't think about Eames_ , he ordered himself. _Don't think about fucking Eames' mouth and coming down his throat with his fingers buried in your ass_. Arthur's hand twitched convulsively on the cream-colored wallpaper. His head dropped forward with a groan and he forced himself to think of something, _anything_ , else.

After reciting the Periodic Table of Elements to himself—twice—he finally got rid of his erection long enough to pee. He didn't bother to flush, not wanting the sound to awaken Eames; the noise of his urine splashing into the toilet bowl had been loud enough.

After tying the toga more securely around his waist, he ran water over his hands and dried them on a towel that dangled haphazardly from the rack before returning to the bedroom. Eames hadn't moved. Arthur retrieved his sandals from the floor and entered the living room, scanning the walls for a phone. He gave a muttered, "Oh thank God" when he saw the telephone propped on a stand near the television. Arthur snatched it up and dialed Cobb's number.

As it buzzed in his ear, Arthur moved to the front door, turned the handle as silently as possible, and opened it.

"M'llo?" Cobb's voice was muffled. Arthur stepped onto the porch and glanced up and down the street, hoping none of Eames' neighbors were early risers. By the digital numbers on the phone, it was 7:43.

"Dom! I need you to come pick me up."

There was a groan and then silence. Arthur listened intently to see if Cobb had dropped the phone, but then he asked, "Arthur?"

"Yeah, of course. I'm stuck here with no transportation and I need to get out. And bring me some clothes."

"Wha-? Where the hell are you?" Finally, Cobb sounded more awake.

"I'm at… His name is Eames. I met him last night." Arthur's cheeks burned.

"You went home with a _stranger_?" Cobb's voice was sharp and disbelieving.

"Can we talk about this after you pick me up?" Arthur demanded.

"Yeah, fine. I'm awake now. Does this _Eames_ have an address?"

"Of course. It's, um…" _Fuck_. Arthur turned around and discovered the house numbers attached to the door frame. He rattled them off to Cobb, but he had no idea what street the house was on. He frowned. The street corner was too far away to see the signs and he sure as hell wasn't going to walk down the path with a toga draped around his hips. "Hang on."

He slipped back into the house and spied a stack of mail on the coffee table. RESIDENT declared the top one. "Hyacinth Street," Arthur whispered into the phone.

Cobb repeated the address back to him and then said, "Fine. I'll be there in fifteen minutes or so. _You owe me_."

Arthur bit back a retort. If not for Cobb, Arthur wouldn't even be in this situation. He replaced the phone and then walked to the bedroom door to peer inside and make sure Eames was still sleeping. Arthur smiled at the sight. Eames was pretty adorable, for a pushy, arrogant… _Anthropology major_ , Arthur reminded himself. Still, he knew someone like Eames would want nothing to do with someone him and it was better for Arthur to be long gone before he woke up.

His smile disappeared as he indulged in a brief fantasy of climbing back into bed, curling himself around Eames, and waking him up with a hand job. Would Eames be amenable, or annoyed?

Unwilling to find out, Arthur pushed himself away from the doorframe and went back outside to wait for Cobb, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch and attempting invisibility whenever a car drove by. It seemed to take forever until Cobb's blue Toyota pulled up to the curb. Arthur leaped to his feet and jogged to the car, nearly tearing the door off the hinges in his haste to enter.

He slammed the door shut and glared at Cobb.

"Did you bring me some clothes?" Arthur demanded.

"Forgot," Cobb said mildly.

Arthur debated slugging him, but settled for fixing his gaze out the window as they left Eames' place behind. Arthur allowed himself one last indulgent reflection, remembering the way Eames had looked when Arthur had dropped to his knees, and then he pushed the memories away, determined not to think of them again.

 **EAMES  
**  
Eames woke with two immediate pieces of knowledge. One, that Arthur was gone, and two, that Eames was the biggest idiot in the entire world.

He rolled out of bed and searched the floor, already knowing that he would find Arthur's personal effects missing. Eames hurried to search the rest of the house, hoping to find Arthur lurking in the kitchen or living room. Of course he was gone.

Eames sank down on the couch, still nude, and cursed himself for sleeping so late. He should have set a bloody alarm in order to awaken before Arthur. And how stupid was he not to have _at least_ been aware when Arthur left the bed?

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_." He sagged back into the couch cushions and stared up at the ceiling. At the bare minimum, he wanted to know how Arthur felt about their night together. Would he even remember it? Did he want to see Eames again, or would he pretend they had never met?

Eames rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Too many late nights revising had kept him asleep rather than waking up to prevent Arthur leaving. He had been looking forward to seeing Arthur tousle-headed and bleary-eyed. And now he didn't even have his phone number.

Eames sat up with a jerk. He didn't have Arthur's number, but he knew someone who did.

He pushed himself off the couch and went to take a shower. Today was a lovely day to drop in on Ariadne. He only hoped she didn't have any garden tools handy.

"Where's Arthur?" she demanded the moment her door opened. Eames was about to reply that he hadn't the vaguest idea when she added, "What did you do to him?"

"I?" he countered and managed to dredge up a hefty level of indignation. "Better to ask what _he_ did to _me_. In fact, let's call him right now and ask him, shall we?" Eames pushed by her and entered her dorm room, which would not have been called spacious by hobbit standards. He seated himself on her tiny bed and waited expectantly.

Ariadne slammed the door and gave him a critical stare. "Did you sleep with him?" she demanded.

"We slept," he replied, watching her warily. He did not see any implements suitable for yard work, but she could have some buried beneath the mountainous stacks of paperwork left behind by her alleged roommate. Eames had been to her dorm dozens of times and never seen the girl. He was beginning to believe Ariadne had made her up; or perhaps killed her and hid the body.

Instead of going for a weapon, Ariadne barked a laugh and sank down in the rickety plastic excuse for a chair. "He left before you woke up," she said in a tone of wonder. "And you don't have his number."

Eames rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. I came to take you to breakfast."

"It's after noon."

"Then lunch."

"What do you really want, Eames?"

He wanted Arthur's bloody phone number, but he knew she would never give it to him without demanding more than he was willing to pay. Even then, there was no guarantee. He was wasting his time. "Never mind," he growled and got to his feet.

As he yanked the door open and entered the corridor, she called sweetly, "What about lunch?"

"Lamashtu doesn't eat human food," he retorted and left.

Eames went home where he poured a glass of juice and wondered how to find Arthur when he didn't even know his last name. He used the glass that still rested on the counter, and imagined he could still taste Arthur on the rim.

He wondered how Arthur had got home. He hadn't carried a phone in his _authentic_ toga, and Eames' phone was still sitting in the centre console of his car. Cursing himself for not thinking of the obvious, he returned to the living room, snatched up the house phone and pressed _REDIAL_.

It rang several times and Eames was on the verge of hanging up when it connected and someone yelled, "Fuck, _what_? Did someone declare this Wake Up Cobb Day?"

"Cobb?" Eames asked.

"This better not be a marketing call or so help me…"

"My name is Eames."

There was a pause. "Hyacinth Street Eames?"

Eames nearly pumped a fist in victory. "You retrieved Arthur."

"Nice of you to take him home," Cobb said. His voice had gone wary, protective.

"He left before I woke up," Eames retorted.

"Guess he didn't feel there was any reason to stick around."

That stung. It was also apparent he would get no help from Cobb. Cursing the loyalty of Arthur's friends, Eames hung up.

He sprawled on the couch and stared mindlessly at the television, changing the channel each time a commercial came on. His bare foot touched something unfamiliar beneath the coffee table, so he reached beneath and snagged it.

Arthur's crown of leaves.

He touched it with a smile and then set it on the table, staring at it while he retraced each memory of the night before. Damn it, Eames had always been good about one-offs. What was so different about Arthur?

 **ARTHUR  
**  
Arthur opened the door to Ariadne's knock. She grinned at him and walked to the kitchen counter to set down the brown bag containing whatever treat she had brought this time. For some reason, she was under the impression that Arthur was perpetually starving and needed fattening up. He sometimes wondered how a German grandmother could lurk beneath such a trim little package. Cobb always cursed her name and then ate the goodies, anyway.

"I brought muffins," she said. "I wasn't sure if you liked cranberries, so I got those and pumpkin." She continued into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. Arthur never drank coffee past ten in the morning unless he was trying to stay awake and study, but Ariadne seemed to live on the stuff so he always kept a pot warm. "How are you?"

The question seemed innocent enough, but he caught the undertone.

"Fine," he said and then gestured to the computer monitor on the desk. "I'm just going over the blueprints for the Piazza design. Did you finish?"

She nodded. "This morning. Is Cobb still sleeping?"

"No, he's out with Mal somewhere. Probably be back late."

Ariadne made a noncommittal sound and sipped her coffee, then asked, "Have you heard from Eames?"

"Who?"

Ariadne wrinkled her nose. "It's like that, then? Sorry, I should have stopped him taking you anywhere. He can be so damned persuasive and I was too drunk to think properly."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm not twelve years old."

She smiled. "I know, it's just… Well, it's _Eames_."

Arthur wanted to ask what she meant, but it would be counter-productive to his goal of never thinking of Eames again. He walked to the computer instead. "I've used Corinthian pilasters here and here, but I'm considering something more modern. What do you think?"

Ariadne joined him and allowed him to change the subject, although she laid a commiserating hand on his shoulder and squeezed before bending down to look at his work.

Mondays were busy. Arthur had four classes and one of them was Trigonometry, which he didn't mind, per se, but he always had loads of homework that he was hard-pressed to find time to complete.

He walked out of class and stopped short, nearly dropping the books in his hand.

"Arthur," said Eames casually, leaning against the wall opposite the door and looking like something out of a bad Gap advertisement. He wore white slacks with pleats and cuffs and a garish shirt that would have looked more appropriate on a geriatric tourist. Arthur was still trying to classify the color (rust with mustard stains?) when Eames pushed away from the wall and walked forward.

Despite his ridiculous outfit—was that a _digital_ watch?—the sight of him did terrible things to Arthur's libido. His mouth looked even more sinful in the light of day and although Arthur knew Eames didn't smoke ( _you idiot, don't think about kissing him_ ) a cigarette would not have looked out of place between those lips.

Arthur turned abruptly and started for the doors, hoping Eames would get the hint. Of course, he didn't.

Eames fell into step beside him. "You're a very hard man to find."

"I didn't know you were looking."

"If I'd known you were going to rabbit, I would have made certain to get your number first."

Arthur gave him a cool stare. "What makes you think I would have given it to you?"

"Ouch, darling." Eames placed a hand over his heart as though wounded.

Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed through the door into the gray afternoon. He hoped it wouldn't rain. For some reason, homework seemed even more difficult on a wet day.

Rapid footsteps sounded behind them and Ariadne called, "Eames! What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, of course," Eames said smoothly.

Arthur's steps faltered and he suddenly felt like an idiot. Of course Eames hadn't been looking for him. He was only here for Araidne. Arthur increased the pace of his walk, wishing he could teleport to the library.

"Why?" he heard Ariadne ask.

"I need my helmet and spear. For some reason the costume rental company wants them back."

"Oh. I think I left them at Saito's. I remember picking them up, but then…"

Arthur moved beyond hearing range with a sense of relief. He thought he had been doing well, forgetting. Okay, not really forgetting, but keeping the memories at bay until he fell into bed at night. And he had only masturbated twice to the recollection of Eames' incredible mouth on— _fuck_.

"Arthur!" he heard behind him. He did not slow his pace, but a moment later Eames jogged up next to him and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

Arthur glared at him, every muscle in his body going tense. "I'm in a hurry."

"Yes, well I'll let you get back to your academic endeavors. But you forgot something. You know, at my place."

Arthur frowned, not appreciating the reminder. He had lost his leaf crown somewhere, but Eames certainly wasn't carrying it at the moment. "What did I forget?" he asked dryly.

Eames pulled a white card out of his shirt pocket and tucked it into Arthur's. "My phone number. Do give me a call, pet."

Arthur met Eames' eyes for a moment. They were pixie-blue and sparkling with life. Arthur then dropped his gaze to Eames' lips, which were curved into an affable smile. He should not have been so attractive; it was ridiculous.

Arthur sneered at him, yanked his arm free of Eames' too-warm, too-strong grip, and continued toward his goal, where he would sit in front of his laptop screen and turn the card over and over in his hands while trying to convince himself to throw it away. By the time he tore the card into tiny pieces it was too late – he had the number memorized.

 **EAMES  
**  
Eames watched Arthur walk away. Bloody hell, but the boy looked good in casual preppy-wear. Eames had thought him delicious in a toga, but the blue cashmere cardigan over a white shirt with tiny stripes, rolled up sleeves, with the edges of the shirt peeping out from beneath the hem of the cardigan… He looked good enough to eat. Again.

"What did you do to him?" Ariadne demanded.

"Why do you keep asking me that?" Eames countered.

"Because he's not acting like himself!"

Eames looked after Arthur, who hadn't looked back once on his near-jog toward the red brick building that housed the library. For a moment, Eames considered cornering him there, among the stacks of books, but chances were good Arthur would simply park himself at a table and ignore him completely. Eames wasn't sure he could take that after an entire day and a half of being disregarded.

Besides, he had already made his move. The next one was up to Arthur.

"Arthur will be fine," Eames said and turned back to Ariadne. "He seems perfectly fine to me, up to and including ignoring my existence, which should make you especially pleased, yes?"

Ariadne bit her lip and flushed. Eames felt no small satisfaction at making her feel guilty. Honestly, she was acting like Arthur was some virginal flower he had despoiled. He cleared his throat, because thinking about despoiling Arthur was not conducive to rational conversation, especially with Ariadne willing to believe the worst of him.

"Did you finish your Psychopharmacology essay?" he asked, changing the subject.

Thankfully, she leaped on the new topic and they did not discuss Arthur again.

Eames became obsessed with his phone. Before giving Arthur his number, he never particularly cared where it was; he would leave it in his car or next to the bed, or lying on the counter in the kitchen, or stuffed in a coat pocket where it wouldn't occur to him to check for several days.

Post-Arthur, Eames kept it as close to himself as possible. He had frightened his Aunt Josephine half to death by answering on the first ring—normally he ignored her calls and got back to her a month later. He cursed Arthur as he drummed his fingers on the counter and listened to her prattle on.

By Thursday, he was well aware that Arthur was never going to call. Even so, it didn't stop him from carrying the bloody device in his trouser pocket, just in case. It was on that particular Thursday that Fate took pity on him.

Professor Henrickson pulled him aside after class and suggested Eames walk with him up three flights of stairs to his office. "Mr Eames, you are taking advanced courses in Cognitive Neuroscience, are you not?"

"Yes," Eames replied.

"Do you believe in subconscious psychometry?

He glanced askance at the professor. "That's a loaded question."

Henrickson grimaced; Eames recognized it as his attempt at a smile. The man was sober as a corpse. "There's someone I want you to meet."

He pushed open the door and Eames saw a sandy-haired man standing at the window, dressed in a much nicer suit than Eames would ever own. He turned and smiled pleasantly.

"Dom, this is the man I was telling you about. His research is top-notch. I think you might find it complimentary to your own," Henrickson said. "Eames, this is Dom Cobb. Cobb, Eames."

Cobb halted partway across the room with his hand uplifted for a handshake. "Eames?" he asked. " _Arthur's_ Eames?"

"Arthur's Cobb?" Eames questioned in return.

"Do you two know each other?" Henrickson asked.

"We know _of_ each other, Professor," Cobb said.

"In a professional capacity, I hope. Mr Eames, Cobb's research in dream psychology and cognitive awareness is quite remarkable."

Eames cocked a brow, intrigued. "Dream psychology?"

Cobb nodded, his expression still wary. "Neural mapping. Dream alteration."

"Consciously altering your own dreams?"

Cobb smiled and shook his head. His gaze was piercing. "Consciously altering the dreams of other people."

"Subconscious virtual reality? What's the point? Another video game? Learn languages while you sleep?"

Cobb glanced at Henrickson and something clicked with Eames, nuances he had noticed but never before bothered to string into a pattern. Henrickson was _Military_ , not just previous to his university career, but currently. Eames berated himself for not seeing it earlier. Henrickson was taking orders from someone.

"Bigger," Cobb said.

Eames mulled it over, wondering what they were playing at. Mind control? He doubted the military—in any country—would ever let go of that particular bone.

"Interested?" Cobb asked.

Eames shrugged. "Convince me I should be."

Cobb did. The discussion took nearly an hour, left Henrickson behind, moved off campus to a hole-in-the-wall café, and then to Cobb's flat. Eames' might have thought the last to be a come-on except that Cobb could speak of nothing but illusion of truth, implicit memory, and something he kept calling 'dream architecture'." Some of his theories were wild, outlandish, and yet he insisted he had data to back them up.

Eames was fascinated. The practical applications made him nervous; dealing with political agendas always fucked things up in the long run, _always_ , but the short term gain in knowledge might be worth it.

Cobb talked the entire way back across campus to a high-rise apartment building. It wasn't until they were in the lift that Cobb faltered. "Oh shit," he said.

"What?"

"I shouldn't… I shouldn't bring you here."

"Why? Does the CIA have your flat wiretapped?"

"Probably, but that's not the reason." The elevator doors opened and Cobb stepped out. He stopped before number 727 and paused, jingling his keys in his hand for a moment. "Fuck it." He jammed a key into the lock and turned it before shoving the door open.

Eames followed slowly, wondering if a burst of gunfire would cut Cobb down, by the way he was acting. Nothing of the sort happened, so Eames entered the flat where Cobb tossed his keys on a nearby table.

"My roommate isn't home," Cobb said, sounding relieved, as if it would interest Eames at all. "Now, tell me about this structured layer theory of yours. How would you keep it all from descending into chaos?"

Twenty minutes later, Cobb's roommate showed up. When the door handle turned, Cobb straightened, dropping from the tablet on which he'd been drawing. Curious, Eames turned and felt his heart flip over when Arthur walked into the room—and froze.

Arthur shot Cobb a look that would not have been out of place on Caesar delivering his final glower to Brutus, reminiscent even without the toga, and then stalked down the short hallway without a word. To Eames' surprise, there was no slamming of a door. Perhaps Arthur thought himself too mature for that, although considering his behaviour, maturity was debatable.

"Care to talk about it?" Cobb asked quietly.

"No," Eames said, mostly because he had no idea what _it_ was. Frankly, Arthur's attitude was inexplicable. Had it really been that bad? He had certainly seemed to enjoy himself at the time. Bloody hell. "I suppose I should go."

"Yeah. No telling what sort of weapons he has in there," Cobb said. Eames wasn't entirely sure he was joking.

"Right, then. We'll talk about that," he waved at the drawings, "later."

Cobb nodded. "Tomorrow. I'll call you."

They exchanged numbers and then Eames let himself out. He debated going to Ariadne's flat and demanding sympathy, but she had already proven herself firmly in Arthur's camp. It would probably be wiser to go out and pick up a willing bloke in order to purge the memory of Arthur's skin and Arthur's mouth and everything else about Arthur that Eames' couldn't seem to forget.


	4. Authentic Embellishment Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ARTHUR  
> **  
>  "What the fuck was that?" Arthur demanded.

**ARTHUR  
**  
"What the fuck was that?" Arthur demanded.

Cobb looked up from the papers in his hand, pretending surprise so effectively that Arthur thought about throwing something at him. Finally, Cobb shrugged.

"Henrickson hooked us up. Your Eames is pretty damn intelligent. Look at this! In thirty minutes he filled in some of the holes Mal has been working on for _weeks_. She's going to flip."

Arthur goggled at him. "Holes?"

"Believe it or not, Arthur, this is not about you. This is about dream research. Your Eames is a fucking prodigy. He's doing work on neural mapping that corresponds with subconscious architecture in ways that are remarkable. Check this out; his work on memory sharing is almost groundbreaking. Mal and I have come up with theories, but Eames has done the legwork. It's a beautiful thing."

Cobb was gone, lost in the depths of dreamland, poring over the drawings and figures and waxing poetic about nonconscious acquisition and priming and covariations. Arthur reluctantly sat down and picked up a notepad. It was covered in a script that looked part scrawl and part elegance, sharp spiky letters broken with unexpected whorls. Eames' handwriting was a conundrum, rather like Eames himself.

"I have to show Mal. Your Eames is going to help us achieve the next level. I can feel it. Arthur, you're—" Cobb stopped and looked at him sharply. "Are you okay with this? What happened between you guys, anyway? For a one night stand you're being pretty weird. I've seen you around former flings and you still flirt with them and act interested. I've never seen you behave like one doesn't exist. What's up? Did he do something—?"

Arthur scowled. He shouldn't have walked out like that. What the fuck was wrong with him? Cobb was right; it had been a one time thing and wasn't anything to be embarrassed about. Christ, now Cobb and Ariadne were thinking he'd been raped or something, instead of experiencing the most amazing night of his life.

"No, he didn't do anything I didn't want him to do," Arthur snapped, blushing. "I was just… a little more out of control than usual and I don't care for the reminder."

Cobb stared at him. "You mean you actually let some of the ice chip away from the block you carry around and now you're treating the poor guy like he stole your virginity?"

Arthur scowled and threw the paper down. He ignored Cobb's ridiculous question. "I don't have a problem with you working with him."

"Good, because I was planning to anyway, and it will be easier if you're not walking around with a grudge up your ass."

"Shouldn't you run off and show Mr. Prodigy's work to Mal?"

Cobb nodded and gathered all the evidence to shove into his briefcase. "Yeah, I should. Maybe you should call Eames and apologize for being a prima donna."

Arthur flipped him off.

Cobb laughed and shrugged into his blazer. "Don't wait up," he said and left.

Arthur groaned and rested his head on the back of the sofa. He wasn't acting like a _prima donna_ or someone whose virginity had been stolen; he just didn't want to see the guy again. Was that too fucking much to ask?

He thought about Eames' number, rolling it around in his head. It was too easy to remember, with lots of twos that had always been Arthur's favorite number. If he called, what would he say? "Hi, Eames, can you stay away from my roommate and my friends because I'm trying to forget those incredible lips of yours and the way they felt wrapped around my dick?" Arthur shut his eyes with a groan, already feeling the familiar heat of arousal at the memory.

He went to his room and stripped off his clothes, half-intending to shower, fully intending to indulge in the memory of Eames. God, Eames had been in Arthur's apartment, sitting on Arthur's couch, looking at him with those surprisingly innocent blue eyes and smiling with that fucking _mouth_. Arthur threw himself on the bed, hand on his cock before he even reached a reclining position.

That night… Despite the alcohol, Arthur remembered every moment of it. The way he had teased Eames with his mouth, not allowing him to come, tormenting him and taking what he wanted… Arthur had never been so bold before. He remembered the feel, the taste, of Eames' cock in his mouth, the silken length of it under his fingers, and the way Eames' had shivered and pleaded, hands clutching the mangled blankets.

Arthur gasped and stroked himself, lost in blurring memories, wanting to hold onto every touch, every murmured word, every taste, and the feel of Eames' fingers as they pushed into him, driving him deeper into Eames' mouth—

Arthur's back arched as he came, spurting fluid over his abdomen and slicking his fingers as he kept tugging, milking every drop and shuddering with the bliss of release. He thought of Eames' smile and the way his eyes had darkened with desire.

"Fuck," he muttered. _I'm an idiot. He gave you his number, dumbass. Call him_.

Arthur leaned over the bed and fumbled for his trousers, dragging them closer with a finger through one belt loop. He wiped his hand on the fabric and then fished his phone out of his pocket.

He tapped in Eames' number and bit his lip as it rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Then four. Arthur was quickly losing his nerve.

"Eames, here." The voice was still seductive, even uttering two short words. Arthur opened his mouth to speak and then he heard the background noises—throbbing bass music and the clink of glasses beneath the laughter and chattering sounds of many people. Eames was at a club, or a party.

Arthur had waited too long; Eames was already looking for another bed partner.

 _Damn it._ Arthur pressed the button to end the call and sagged back onto the bed, feeling strangely bereft. He couldn't recall when being proven right had been so utterly depressing.

 **EAMES  
**  
"Hello?" Eames said and pushed a finger into the ear not pressed against his phone in order to drown out the sounds of the club. "Hello?"

He pulled the phone away and looked at it, only to find the call disconnected. He frowned, not recognizing the number blinking at him before it vanished and left his background image behind.

 _Who could be calling_ —? The answer hit him like a blow. Oh God, it was Arthur. The idea sent him shoving away from his stool and pushing through the crowd to get outside where it was quieter. As soon as the doors shut behind him, blocking the music and forced jollity, Eames pressed the callback.

The phone rang and rang endlessly.

"Please pick up," Eames muttered.

He gnawed his lip as it rang and mentally cursed himself. Bloody hell, seeing Arthur in Cobb's flat had been like a kick in the gut. Arthur's lovely, surprised face altering to a glare levelled at Cobb, barely acknowledging Eames' existence… Cobb's sympathetic look had been the final straw. Eames had to accept the fact that Arthur did not want him.

He had left the flat and driven straight to a random club, intending to pick up the first person who met his fancy, take them home, and shag the memory of Arthur out of his fucking head.

Eames had barely got through half his drink when the phone rang. Now he listened to the rhythmic tone and knew Arthur—it had to be Arthur, hadn't it?—was not going to answer. For a moment, he considered lobbing the phone across the car park in a fury.

" _Fuck_!" he yelled aloud. A couple walking past gave him a wary look and quickened their steps. Eames tried to calm himself. Maybe it hadn't been Arthur. It could have been a wrong number, or some random marketing call. He gripped the phone tightly, indecisive, wanting to drive over and demand to know if Arthur had called, but if it hadn't been him then Eames would look like the biggest fool in the world.

He took several deep breaths and then lifted the phone again.

"Hey, Eames," answered Cobb.

"Are you still at your flat?" Eames asked.

"No, I'm on my way to Mal's."

Eames made a face. He had been hoping he could talk his way back to Arthur and Cobb's place just to see Arthur again, as ridiculous as it seemed.

"Hey, are you busy now?" Cobb asked.

"No."

"Can you come to Mal's? I was thinking about that pathway theory of yours and think it might be better if you explain it to Mal. Otherwise she'll ask me a million questions."

Eames glanced at the club door and realized he no longer had an inclination to pull anyone who wasn't Arthur. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, I can do that."

He made a mental map of the location of Mal's house from Cobb's directions, hung up, and got into his car. At least focussing on dream theory would keep his mind off of Arthur. Possibly. Hopefully.

 **ARTHUR  
**  
Arthur sipped at his coffee and stared listlessly at his computer monitor. He should be working on his project, or at least researching Cobb's latest exercise in mental gymnastics, but he couldn't seem to concentrate. All he could think about was someone else in Eames' bed and berating himself for being unable to consider anything else.

He heard Mal's laugh before the door opened. She and Cobb spilled into the room, looking disheveled and far too happy for so early in the morning. Or late morning, Arthur amended, realizing it was almost noon. He had slept later after tossing and turning half the night. Luckily, he didn't have class on Fridays until 2pm.

"Arthur!" Mal said and hurried forward to sling her arms around his neck and press a kiss to the top of his head. Arthur smiled, despite his mood.

"Do we have any food?" Cobb asked, walking to the kitchen and opening a cabinet.

"When do we ever have food unless Ariadne is here?" Arthur asked dryly. They both detested grocery shopping and tended to either eat out or order in. Or not eat.

"Good point, but I thought we had some chips. Mal wants Mexican."

Arthur threw her a questioning look. "You really came here looking for something to eat?"

She wrinkled her nose pertly. "Of course not. I came here to see you, Arthur. Dom says you are having some difficulty."

"Difficulty?" Arthur frowned and shot a glance at Cobb, who was looking through cabinets they hadn't opened in weeks. "Cobb, if there are chips in there, I guarantee they won't be edible."

"Yeah, fine, I just thought we had some. I know we still have salsa."

"With Eames," Mal said.

"I don't think the salsa is— _what_?" His attention shifted back to Mal, who was watching him sympathetically and then back to Cobb with a glare.

"Eames," Mal repeated. "He is a very smart fellow, Arthur. I think you might like him if you would get to know him better."

Arthur stopped glowering at Cobb, who was scrounging in the fridge, and stared at Mal. She leaned against the back of the sofa and smiled at him. "You know Eames?" Arthur asked stupidly.

"I met him last night. At first I was not so sure, but whenever your name was mentioned he would get this interesting tension about him. He finally loosened up and asked many questions about you. Dom says you met him at Saito's party and went home with him." She frowned. "Was it not good?"

Arthur flushed, but then her words registered. He often felt two steps behind when talking to Mal, but this was ridiculous. "What do you mean you met him last night? When, last night?"

Cobb shut the refrigerator, hands wrapped around a jar of salsa. "Right after I left here. Eames called me when I was on my way to Mal's, so I asked him to come over and talk to her. We ended up talking theory all night. Oh shit, how old is this stuff?"

"We will go to Mama Carlotta's," Mal said and gave Cobb an even stare.

"All night?" Arthur repeated.

"Yes, and I feel badly. Poor Eames had a class at eight o' clock this morning and he did not leave until… What time was it, Dom? Past three, no?"

"Past three, yes. Closer to four." Cobb tossed the salsa jar into the trash and dusted off his hands. "Mama Carlotta's it is. Arthur, do you have any money?"

"You still owe me twenty bucks," Arthur complained, but opened his desk drawer to grab his wallet. His thoughts were whirling. Eames had been with Mal and Cobb _all night_. He hadn't taken anyone home. Had Eames even been at a club? What if Arthur had misheard? What if it had been the damned television?

Cobb snatched the bills from Arthur's hand in passing. "Thanks, Artie. Come on, Mal, let's get some food and then go back to your place and go over those neuroimaging graphs again."

Mal chuckled. "You say the most romantic things, Dom." Despite the statement, her tone was fond. She pushed away from the couch. "You should come with us, Arthur. You are cooped up in here far too often."

"I'm fine," Arthur said. "I have class in a couple of hours."

She sighed and put a hand on his cheek. "All right, but you should come over tonight."

He squeezed her wrist and smiled. "I will."

She leaned down and whispered, "And I think there is more to Eames than meets the eye. That is all I will say about that." She straightened, gave him a wink, and went out.

Arthur sat back in his chair when the door shut behind them. He had a lot to think about.

It started to rain while Arthur was in class and by the time he jogged back to his car, the sky was pouring buckets. He was glad he had decided to drive rather than walk across campus or he would have looked like a drowned rat by the time he got home.

He sat in the car and let it idle until the heat came on and dissipated the fog crawling over the windows. Impulsively, he threw it into gear, left the University parking lot, and headed for Eames' house.

The rain was slightly lessened when he parked and hurried up the front walk, mentally debating the wisdom of his potentially idiotic plan, but his internal war came to nothing when his third sharp knock brought no one to answer the door.

Eames wasn't home.

Cursing his luck, he ran back to the car and sat in it for a bit, fingering the edges of his phone while he debated calling Eames, but what would he say? " _I realize I've been a total asshole for the past few days, but I'm over that…_ " Yeah, that would probably go over well.

Arthur started the car and decided to go home. Maybe he could convince Mal to invite Eames over tonight and Arthur would make an effort to talk to him.

He pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex and slung his laptop bag over his shoulder as he slammed the door. It was pouring again, _oh joy_ , and the short dash across the lot would likely leave him drenched.

He ran anyway, splashing through puddles and hoping his Italian loafers weren't ruined, especially considering how much Cobb harassed him about the expense. He raced around the corner of the building—and slammed straight into someone whose arms clutched desperately at him to keep them both from falling.

Arthur gripped the man's forearms and held tightly as his laptop case slipped across his back and dangled, threatening to drag him down.

"Arthur," he heard.

He caught his balance and looked up in surprise. His hands tightened even as Eames' loosened from his biceps, not quite letting go, but obviously considering it.

"Eames," Arthur breathed. They stared at each other in shocked silence for a moment and Arthur realized he hadn't been this close to Eames since he had left his bed and departed his house like a wraith. "Eames," he repeated and took a step closer.

"Arthur, are you—?"

It was all Eames managed to say, because Arthur silenced him with a kiss. Eames gasped and Arthur took his parted lips as an invitation and snaked his tongue inside, greedily tasting him. Eames' fingers tightened on his arms again and then slid around Arthur's back to pull him even closer.

It shouldn't have felt like coming home, not after one stupid night and several days of soul-searching denial, but it did. It felt wonderful. Arthur kissed him as if he would drown without consuming Eames completely.

After a minute or two, he felt like he might _actually_ drown, because the rain was still pounding down on them and the kiss was sodden, and water trickled down his face, and his hair was soaked. Eames pulled away and Arthur couldn't help but laugh at his bemused expression.

"You are completely mad," Eames said.

Arthur nodded agreement. He felt a bit crazy, truthfully, but could find no reason to regret it.

"Cobb is in your flat. I dropped off some notes for him and I admit I was rather hoping you would be there. Are you feeling all right? You've not been drinking? Had a sharp blow to the head? Kidnapped by little green men and replaced with a doppelganger?"

Arthur shook his head happily. How could he have forgotten how delightful it was just to listen to Eames talk? "Can we…?" Arthur stopped, suddenly uncertain. He had rejected Eames for days and acted like their time together had meant nothing.

"Can we what, Arthur? Can we get out of this bloody weather, for a start?"

Arthur nodded and let go of Eames' shirt. He sidestepped, intending to head toward the apartment, but Eames caught one of his hands and pulled him along instead, back in the direction of the parking lot. Arthur allowed himself to be led.

Eames' car waited in the lot. He opened the passenger side door for Arthur, just as he had the night they had left Saito's party. Arthur entered without hesitation. Eames jogged around the front of the car and climbed into the driver's side. He slammed the door and inserted the key, and then grinned at Arthur.

"Now, then. Arthur. Since you are, presumably, in your right mind, where would you like to go?"

"Your house," Arthur said and then amended the statement. "Your bed."

Eames caught his breath and seemed on the verge of lifting a hand to feel Arthur's forehead, but then he only smiled and turned his gaze to the windshield. "Excellent choice. If you see any bobbies, try and warn me, all right? Because I will most assuredly break every speed law on the way."

Arthur tried to concentrate on the drive, but his eyes kept shifting to watch Eames' hands on the steering wheel and his forearms flexing with every movement. The sleeves of his blue paisley shirt were rolled up nearly to his elbows. The closer they got to Eames' house, Arthur waited for doubt to assail him. Surely it was crazy to give into this… whatever it was?

But each time he glanced over at Eames, whose attention remained fixed on the road as he passed cars and took corners at speeds that made the tires squeal in protest, Arthur could feel nothing but calm, as though he had finally made the right decision.

Eames slid the car to a halt before the house, parking half on the grass and yanking the key from the ignition before the engine even shut off. He gave Arthur a quirky grin.

"Changed your mind, yet? Last chance."

Arthur shook his head and opened the door. His heartbeat was already quickening at the knowledge of what awaited him. His palms felt damp, and not just from resting against his wet trousers.

Eames unlocked the door and ushered Arthur inside with the briefest grasp on his elbow. He tossed his keys toward a glass bowl resting on a side table near the entry. They missed the bowl, slid across the wood, and came to a halt precariously near the edge.

"Home, sweet home," Eames quipped. "I'm not sure you remember it, seeing you were a bit out of it at the time."

Arthur looked at him. "I remember everything," he said seriously.

Eames swallowed and his eyes went dark and liquid. Arthur stepped into Eames' personal space, wrapped his arms around his neck, and kissed him again. Eames felt cold, chilled from his wet clothing. Arthur should have been cold, but he was burning up.

"We should… mmph… get you." Eames tried to speak through Arthur's determined mouth. "…wetclothes," he managed.

"Yes," Arthur said and started on the buttons of Eames' shirt, working by feel because he did not plan to stop kissing Eames' gorgeous mouth now that he'd started.

Eames' fingers tugged at the knot of Arthur's tie. And continued trying to speak. "Why—mmmmh—why tie… mmm?"

Arthur assumed he wanted to know why he wore a tie to class. Arthur believed in being properly dressed at all times, but now was definitely not the time to explain that to Eames. When the paisley shirt parted, Arthur pushed his hands inside and touched Eames' skin, stroking upward over ribs and chest and brushing his thumbs lightly over Eames' nipples, earning a sound muffled by Arthur's mouth.

Arthur's wet tie seemed to frustrate Eames, who gave up trying to loosen it and went for the buttons on Arthur's white shirt instead. He dragged the collar free of the tie once the fabric fell open. Eames unbuttoned Arthur's sleeves, single-handedly, one at a time, gently pulling Arthur's hands free of his hot skin—quickly replaced—and then tugged the shirt away from Arthur's shoulders. The material had barely fallen away before Eames' hands, warmer and softer than expected, moved over Arthur's flesh, touching back, shoulders, and arms. Arthur realized he had not, actually, remembered everything about that night, because the feel of Eames' hands seemed brand new.

Arthur reciprocated, quite willing to feel every inch of Eames' damp, cool skin. He left off kissing Eames' full lips only to press biting nibbles against his face and neck, intent on working his way down his torso and tasting every bit of Eames' flesh on the way to his prize.

"Arthur," Eames said breathily. "God, you're so…" His hands slid downward and cupped Arthur's ass, squeezing and dragging him forward. The pressure of Eames' hardness was delightful torment against his own rigid cock, but the gesture was also keeping Arthur from his goal. He tried to pull away, taking a step back and hoping to remove his groin from Eames', not that Arthur's cock had a problem with the arrangement, but Arthur wanted Eames' pants off as soon as possible.

But Eames held tighter and shifted his hips, grinding them together at the same time his mouth laid biting kisses down Arthur's neck. Delicious heat curled through Arthur, burning away every hint of chill. His fingers latched onto Eames' waistband, needing to tear away the barriers between them. Arthur's head fell back and he groaned as Eames' teeth bit into the taut muscle above his collarbone, followed by his tongue soothing the bite.

"Arthur." Eames' voice was rough. "I need you to go into the bedroom right now and lie down on my bed."

Arthur thought about bristling. He hated to take orders; in fact, he had a long history of rebelling against authority, as his juvenile record could attest. But Arthur sensed that Eames' words were less a demand and more of a warning that if Arthur didn't move immediately, the less-than-spotless living room carpet would be his next destination. He reluctantly disentangled himself from Eames and then turned and walked to the bedroom, pausing only once to throw a coy smirk over his shoulder.

The expression on Eames' face was priceless.

Although Eames hadn't said anything about getting naked, Arthur thought it would be a good idea, so he kicked off his shoes and slid out of his pants. He wasn't quite ready to expose himself completely, despite their past history, so he left his boxer-briefs on and crawled onto the bed. Eames hadn't followed him and Arthur frowned, wondering where he had gone.

Arthur propped the pillows comfortably and lifted one knee before arranging himself in what he hoped was an enticing pose. As he did so, his gaze snared on a ring of fake leaves sitting looped over one bedpost—Arthur's Roman circlet. Eames had kept it.

The rush of warmth he felt at the sight was quickly followed by uncertainty. It was possible Arthur was getting in over his head, but he would rather not think about it. He willed Eames to hurry, before he lost his nerve. As if called by the thought, Eames appeared around the edge of the door and stopped short. His eyes travelled slowly over Arthur and then a smiled curved his sinful lips.

Arthur's heart rate quickened as he looked at Eames, who was definitely all man—broad and muscular with hair on his chest and a five-o-clock shadow darkening his jaw. His nipples and the tantalizing indentation of his navel made Arthur want to eat him alive. He swallowed, mortified that his mouth was actually watering.

"Arthur," Eames said. "You are a vision."

"How can you tell from way over there?" Arthur asked in what he hoped was a seductive tone.

Eames grinned. "I remembered I had purchased more of this," he held up a small plastic bottle that Arthur thought he recognized as lubricant. "It was still in the bag in the kitchen. I thought we… well, I hoped we might need it."

"Oh, _we'll need it_ ," Arthur assured him and could not resist smiling when Eames' countenance lit up. Eames tossed the bottle toward him and Arthur snatched it out of the air, pleased that he had caught it and not had it bounced off his fingertips in a display of dweebishness.

Eames walked forward. He had already removed his shoes, possibly in the kitchen, and shed his pants on the way. After a slight pause, Eames dropped his boxers, as well.

Arthur levered himself up in order to appraise the sight. His memories of Eames' cock were vague, at best, and alcohol-tinted. The reality was better than he remembered, and possibly a bit alarming. Eames cock stood at half-mast, not quite fully hard, but long and thick, with a dark spot at the tip where the foreskin had begun to slide back.

"Like what you see, then?" Eames asked, sounding borderline arrogant, but his eyes were soft and gleaming with amusement and something deeper.

Arthur only nodded and then Eames was on the bed, climbing over Arthur and pushing him back against the bed, claiming his lips. Eames hands wrapped around Arthur's wrists and held them down.

"Shall I tie you to the bed this time, so you cannot escape?" Eames asked, pulling back to look into Arthur's eyes.

"I won't escape," Arthur replied.

"No creeping out with the dawn and leaving behind only a crown of foliage and a nebulous memory?"

"It was long past dawn. And nebulous? I thought _I_ was the drunk one."

Eames frowned. "I can barely remember a thing." Arthur's fist caught him in the ribs and Eames huffed a surprised laugh and continued, "I only meant you'll have to refresh my memory."

"I suppose that can be arranged," Arthur said and took hold of Eames' cock.


	5. Authentic Embellishment Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EAMES  
> **  
>  Eames was not entirely certain he wasn't dreaming, especially after spending the entire previous night discussing dream theory with Cobb and Mal. He thought about pinching himself, but if you pinched yourself in a dream, wouldn't you still feel it?

**EAMES  
**  
Eames was not entirely certain he wasn't dreaming, especially after spending the entire previous night discussing dream theory with Cobb and Mal. He thought about pinching himself, but if you pinched yourself in a dream, wouldn't you still feel it?

All thoughts of dreaming were forced out of his mind when Arthur's hand wrapped around his cock and squeezed. If it wasn't reality, he no longer cared as long as Arthur kept doing _that_.

"Your amazing dick," Arthur said breathily. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"I know the feeling," Eames admitted and closed his eyes to savour the sensation of Arthur touching him. The reminder that Arthur thought his cock was _amazing_ brought another heady rush.

"Really? Is that why you were at a club?"

Eames' eyes snapped open. "You did call me!"

Arthur looked away and a blush tinted his cheeks. Eames felt a rush of glee, knowing he'd been right, and suddenly he was very glad he had gone to Mal's place with Cobb instead of seeking out a dark-haired substitute for Arthur.

"Were you annoyed with me? Is that why you wouldn't answer when I called you back?"

"No," Arthur replied immediately, but he wouldn't meet Eames' eyes.

Eames pushed a hand through the leg opening of Arthur's pants and stroked his thumb lightly over Arthur's testicles. "No? Not even a tiny bit?"

"Maybe a little," Arthur murmured on a breath. He lifted his hips and pushed into Eames' hand, but Eames moved his fingers away to trail them over Arthur's thigh. "Okay, a lot."

Eames smiled and replaced his hand, cupping it over Arthur's hard cock. Bloody hell. Arthur's groan nearly made Eames come from the sound alone, helped by Arthur palming his prick with increasingly delicious movements.

Eames did the same, stroking with deliberation, willing to see who broke first. All the while, Eames stared down at Arthur, drinking in the sight of him flushed and panting, beginning to lose the control he wore like an invisible garment.

"I was afraid I would never again see you like this," Eames admitted on a whisper. He silenced Arthur's reply with a kiss and then let go of his cock to pull at the last barrier of cloth between them. Eames' hands caressed Arthur's long legs as he drew the cotton fabric up and away. "You are gorgeous."

Arthur blushed as if no one had ever paid him such a compliment and Eames leaned down and took Arthur's cock into his mouth to underscore his words. Arthur arched into him and his hands dropped to Eames' head. Considering his domination last time, Eames half expected Arthur's grip to become bruising, but Arthur was curiously docile. Eames wondered if it was more typical of Arthur's usual behaviour and the other was simply a result of the alcohol. He hoped he would have the opportunity to find out.

After Eames worked Arthur's cock for a few minutes, taking him throat-deep and remembering the night when Arthur had fucked his mouth—and then Arthur pulled at his hair with a murmured, "Stop. Eames."

Eames looked up and let Arthur's cock slap against his abdomen with a wet sound. He pressed a kiss against the tip and was glad to note Arthur's expression was not troubled. In fact…

"I want you to fuck me," Arthur said.

Questions sprang to Eames' lips, but he forced them all back. There would be time to determine Arthur's motivation later. Eames wasn't stupid enough to risk breaking whatever spell Arthur was under. Without speaking, Eames nodded and levered himself up to reach the bedside table. He wrenched open the small drawer and fumbled for a condom to go with the lubricant he had lost somewhere on the bed—ah, there it was.

Arthur took the foil packet from his fingers and tore it open with his teeth. He pushed himself up and then rolled the latex over Eames' stiff cock, which was an amazing experience in itself. Eames could not recall when anyone had done it for him; it was somehow touching, especially when Arthur kept his eyes locked with Eames' for most of the process.

Eames impulsively kissed him and then pushed him gently, urging him to lie down. "Let me take care of you, darling."

Arthur's nose wrinkled as he fell back, hands falling loosely over his head. "Do you call everyone that?"

Eames laughed. "Oddly enough, you are the sole recipient of that particular endearment. Does it bother you?"

Arthur closed his eyes and seemed to relax against the pillows, though every line in his body looked tense. "No."

Eames trailed his hands gently over Arthur's abdomen, massaging to help him relax. He wondered if Arthur had ever bottomed before, but forbore to ask. If so, it had either been a long time or it simply did not come naturally to him, because his muscles were taut. Asking him to relax would likely make it worse, so Eames set about loosening him up in a far more pleasurable way, starting with Arthur's neck.

"Your neck is nothing short of edible, Arthur," Eames murmured as he placed biting kisses beneath Arthur's ear and continued down over his jugular. "And your collarbones are perfectly sinful."

Arthur snorted, but he was incrementally relaxing beneath Eames, whose hands continued to stroke languid circles over Arthur's ribs and hipbones. "Collarbones can't be sinful," Arthur said.

"Oh yes, they can. Yours are like fine white chocolate. Smooth and lovely and begging to be tasted." Eames licked the delicate ridges and then dipped his tongue into the hollow and laved it. Arthur's breath hitched and then gripped Eames' shoulders, holding lightly.

"And your torso is like a Renaissance statue," Eames continued and kissed his way down to one perfect nipple. He teased it with his tongue before latching onto it and sucking vigorously. Arthur's cock twitched and left a smear of wetness across Eames' skin as he switched to the other nipple. Arthur's fingers dug into Eames' shoulders.

Eames continued to give attention to Arthur's nipples as he unscrewed the lubricant cap with one thumb and forefinger before squeezing some out onto his fingertips. Then he cupped Arthur's balls and gave them a delicate grope. Arthur made a choked noise and practically vibrated beneath Eames. Bloody hell, he was responsive. Eames' fingers stroked the soft flesh beneath Arthur's testicles, swirling over the sensitive skin there and working ever so slowly down until he reached the furrowed area.

Arthur tensed again, but only for a moment. His fingers released their punishing grip from Eames' shoulders and then rubbed lightly over his skin, up over Eames' neck where his nails scraped through his hair, earning a groan from the brief scalp massage. Damn, it felt good.

Arthur's fingers stayed in Eames' hair, moving slowly, as Eames kissed his way lower, until he hovered over Arthur's cock while his index finger teased at Arthur's entrance. Eames licked a long stripe up Arthur's hard length, flattening his tongue and then curling it around the head as if he were painting it and not wanting to miss a spot.

He took the whole thing into his mouth just as his fingertip breached Arthur, pushing inside to the first knuckle. Arthur bit off a cry almost before it was uttered and his body shook and went completely rigid again.

Eames' other hand stroked over Arthur's hip in a calming gesture even as he swallowed his cock, burying his nose in Arthur's pubic curls. Arthur panted and loosened his fingers in Eames' hair, where they had quite painfully clenched.

"Sorry," Arthur murmured and then his body went completely loose. Eames marvelled at Arthur's incredible willpower and then pushed his finger deeper. Arthur remained relaxed and Eames wriggled the digit in and out until it felt right to insert another. Arthur only groaned a bit at the added intrusion, or possibly at Eames' sucking his cock. Either way, the sound was maddening and Eames prick pushed against the duvet, hips thrusting as he unconsciously sought to ease the pressure.

Eames kept up the slow tease, sliding a third finger in with the other two and stretching him as gently as possible, aware of every hiss and gasp and quiver.

"Fuck, Eames, I'm not going to break. Just do it, already."

Eames chuckled and pulled his fingers free to lever himself up. He grinned down at Arthur, who already looked half-wrecked. The sight gave Eames' ego a jolt and his smile faded as he prepared his cock, slicking more lubricant over the condom.

Then he placed a reassuring kiss against Arthur's lips and took the plunge.

 **ARTHUR  
**  
Arthur felt like he was being torn in half.

Eames' fingers had been difficult enough to take, but his cock… Arthur knew his grip on Eames' biceps were probably leaving bruises and completely destroying Arthur's image as a master of casual sex, but he simply couldn't help it.

In truth, Arthur had never bottomed. Not ever. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to do it this time, except the thought of Eames bearing down on him with that magnificent body… And Arthur wanted to apologize for being a fucking bastard all week and actions seemed better than words when it came to Eames.

 _Stop_ , he thought, even though he couldn't speak the word through his pride.

Eames, apparently, was telepathic as well as gorgeous, because he halted partway inside and let Arthur cling to him desperately, shaking. "Breathe, darling. Try to relax. It gets easier, I promise."

 _Fuck_. Arthur might as well have worn a t-shirt that said **_I'm a virgin!_**

He relaxed his fingers with effort, and then the rest of him, using his vaunted willpower and trying to breathe like a pregnant woman in a Lamaze class. "I'm fine," he said through clenched teeth.

Eames chuckled. "Of course you are." His thumbs stroked over Arthur's hipbones and Arthur could feel his thighs shaking, probably from the difficulty of not thrusting completely inside and savoring the tight heat—that feeling Arthur knew well.

The discomfort ebbed enough that Arthur could withstand it and he nodded, hoping Eames would take it as assent to continue. Eames kissed him again first, which was one of the more excellent things about Eames. Arthur loved to kiss and Eames was incredible at it and seemed to enjoy it just as much. Tasting those lips and running his tongue over Eames' not-perfectly-straight teeth was an exercise in self-restraint in order to stop doing it. Spending hours at the activity would not be a waste of time.

He let go of Eames' arms in order to shove his fingers into his short hair again and deepen the kiss. It helped take his mind off the fact that Eames was _moving_ … _oh God_.

Arthur fought through it. And then it did get better. A fuckton better. Arthur's eyes snapped open and he stared at Eames in amazement.

Eames laughed. "Arthur. You have never bothered to locate your prostate before now?"

"Shut up," Arthur retorted. He shut his eyes, unwilling to admit that he was not, in fact, in the habit of shoving things up his ass, nor of experimenting at all, actually. When he got horny he would choose someone random, generally at a club, go back to their place, fuck them hard, and get out. Arthur did not have the time for emotional attachment or sexual inventiveness.

"I feel privileged to be the one to introduce you," Eames said, sounding smug. Before Arthur could retort, he began to move again, dragging over the gland that nearly had Arthur seeing stars. "Good?" Eames asked with diminished arrogance.

"Yes," Arthur admitted breathily as he bit his lip and drove his hips upward to meet Eames' next thrust. Eames' accompanying groan brought a grin to Arthur's lips, pleased to be able to return the favor.

It was alternately uncomfortable and blissful beyond reason as Arthur exercised muscles that had possibly never before been used. Watching Eames work was incredible, chest and arm muscles corded as he held Arthur's hips in place and drove into him over and over. His handsome face was taut with concentration, but the warm look in his eyes never wavered. It was almost too intense to bear and Arthur found his eyes fluttering shut, only to snap open with the need to watch.

The stimulation was too much. It seemed far too short a time before he was coming, embarrassingly untouched, and shouting unintelligibly—at least he hoped it wasn't intelligible, because his thoughts were a jumble of nothing but Eames' name and mortifying sentiments that bordered on adoration.

Eames didn't seem to mind, judging by the tension Arthur felt beneath his fingers. Eames quivered and made the most amazing face as he jerked his hips forward, rocking into Arthur a few more times before opening his eyes. They stared at each other timelessly and then Eames fell forward into another gasping kiss. It was sloppy and wet and altogether wonderful.

"All right?" Eames asked as he pushed back and then gently pulled out. Arthur grimaced. He would definitely feel the effects of that for a while to come. Just lowering his legs made several muscles twinge. He felt raw and sore and…

Eames expression was concerned. Arthur forced a smile. He wasn't completely sure what he felt, except that it was definitely— "Good. Really good. You are very… Well, I'm sure your ego doesn't need any encouragement."

Eames sprawled beside Arthur and peeled off the condom. Arthur wrinkled his nose in disgust when he deposited it on the bedside table, earning a grin and another bruising kiss from Eames. Then he pulled away and asked, "If I go to the loo for a minute, you won't run away, will you?"

Arthur gave him a sardonic look. "No."

Eames sat up. "You're positive? You'll be here when I get back?"

Arthur bit his cheek to avoid smiling and glared at him instead. "I'll be right here."

"I'm going to trust you," Eames said soberly. He picked up the discarded condom—thankfully—and headed for the bathroom. Arthur watched him go, because any opportunity to watch a naked Eames should never be passed up, and then crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He hadn't lied. He felt better than he had in days, or weeks. Possibly months.

Eames returned quickly, holding a washcloth. "Oh good! You kept your word."

"I wouldn't have had time to put my clothes back on."

"I wasn't sure if that would stop you from fleeing."

"Look, I'm sorry about last time—what are you doing?"

"Cleaning you up, of course. Don't worry, it's warm." Eames pushed Arthur's legs open and slid between them, holding the wet cloth. For some reason, despite what they had just done, Arthur blushed furiously.

"No, you don't need to—"

"Hush," Eames said and pressed the washcloth to Arthur's abused flesh. It did feel good, but _dammit_ , allowing Eames to take care of him so intimately made it seem like something other than a casual sexual relationship. Arthur caught his wrist with a jolt of panic. Their eyes locked and held. "What are you afraid of, Arthur?"

"You," he admitted.

Eames smiled gently and then he reached out and snared the back of Arthur's head to drag him forward into another kiss. "Arthur," he breathed. He kissed the edge of Arthur's mouth and then his jaw, and worked his way to Arthur's neck. Arthur closed his eyes and felt Eames' slow pulse beneath his fingers, which still held tightly to Eames' wrist. Languid heat began to steal through him, stoked by each touch of Eames' lips.

Arthur sighed and surrendered, falling back against the pillows and releasing Eames' wrist. The washcloth stroked gently over his skin, but Eames never stopped kissing him until he pushed himself up to wipe away the drying semen on Arthur's stomach.

"There," Eames said and tossed the washcloth onto the same nightstand that had recently hosted the used condom.

"You aren't going to leave that there, are you?" Arthur asked.

"What if I am?" Eames asked with an overly large grin.

"It will delaminate the wood and ruin the finish."

"It warms my heart that you are concerned about my furnishings," Eames said and threw himself down beside Arthur, causing the bed to bounce and creak in protest.

"Do you have to make everything awkward?"

"It seems to be my failing, yes," Eames admitted.

Arthur shifted his gaze from Eames' face to the bit of window visible through a gap in the ugly cream-colored curtains, where trickling droplets gave evidence that the rain still fell outside.

"I should go."

"Why?" The question was simple; the answers were varied and complex.

"I have homework. And Cobb wanted another set of drawings that Ariadne was having problems with." Arthur shut up, unsure which of them he was trying to convince.

"Or you could stay here and I can fashion you a toga from the bed sheets and we can play master and gladiator again."

Arthur turned and looked at him, unwillingly amused and more than a little turned on by the memory. Eames' hand trailed over Arthur's chest, drawing shapeless swirls.

"And then we can order take-away and canoodle on the couch while watching terrible, violent American movies and have sex several more times, with or without caramel syrup."

Arthur refrained from smiling, barely. It was difficult with Eames grinning like an idiot and then he moved even closer. His hand shifted from Arthur's chest to his face and he brushed a strand of hair away from Arthur's eyes.

"And then we'll come back to this bed and make love all night and in the morning I will make you the most excellent breakfast food ever invented by this upstart country."

Arthur's lips twitched with the effort of holding back a foolish, possibly besotted, smile and his heart rate seemed to stutter into an uneven rhythm. "Which is?"

"Strawberry waffles."

"You are going to make strawberry waffles?"

"Indeed."

"With real strawberries?"

"Well, I can only assume they are real strawberries. It's hard to tell when you take them from the package and pop them into the toaster."

The laugh tore free. Arthur couldn't hold it any longer and Eames' wickedly glinting eyes and gorgeous smirk only made it worse. Arthur laughed until he had to bury his face against Eames' chest to make it stop.

"Arthur, waffles are a very serious food. I cannot fathom your hilarity."

"Eggos," Arthur muttered against his skin. "You are going to make frozen strawberry waffles?"

"They are already frozen, darling. I will toast them and bring them to you on a silver platter. Or a plastic plate. Whichever might reside in my cupboard."

"How about we go to IHOP and have real strawberry waffles, instead?"

"With whipped cream?" Eames' expression was delightful.

"Of course."

"And then we'll go to your flat and have sex on your bed."

Arthur drew back to look at him, humor fading. "And then what?"

Eames frowned. "Well, I suppose we could have sex on the sofa, but Cobb might be alarmed if—" He cut off with a huff as Arthur punched him lightly on the ribs.

"We are not having sex on the sofa!"

"Kitchen counter?"

Arthur laughed again, even though he tried not to. "Absolutely not."

Eames pulled him closer, twining his naked legs with Arthur's. "Then we'll just come back here and have sex on _my_ sofa and counter and in the shower and possibly some other places I haven't thought of yet. Of course this will take several days, maybe even weeks, so—"

Arthur cut him off. "Weeks?"

Eames made a serious face, as if considering his words. Arthur might have held his breath. " _Years_?" Eames amended.

Arthur tried not to laugh, but it was difficult. "Can't you be serious?"

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life, Arthur." Eames' tone was sober and Arthur found it hard to breathe for the space of several heartbeats. Then he pushed himself away and swung his legs off the bed, mind racing.

Before he could stand, strong arms wrapped around him and held him in place. Eames' torso pressed against his back and lovely, warm lips nuzzled against his neck. "Arthur. I haven't been able to think of anything else since you left. That has never happened to me before."

Arthur swallowed and fought the urge to melt into his embrace. "Novelty," he whispered.

Eames held on for a minute more and then his arms fell away. "All right, then. I won't keep you if you don't want to stay. Despite my heart screaming at me to tie you to the bed."

Arthur stood up shakily and gathered up his clothes, afraid to look at Eames, afraid to look at anything. He dragged on his boxer briefs and then his shirt, but walked quickly to the door with his pants and shoes in hand, feeling like he needed to escape. Every step made him feel like he was walking through quicksand.

He paused at the bedroom door and put one hand on the jamb before turning to look at Eames, who hadn't moved from his kneeling position on the bed. He meant to say something apologetic or flippant or clever. What came out was:

"Caramel syrup?"

Eames stared at him and then nodded slowly. "The type in the jar. Only the best."

Arthur smiled and tossed his garments toward the nearest chair. They missed by a mile. "I would be stupid to pass that up."

"Get back here, you," Eames growled.

Arthur walked back to the bed, feeling like he'd just made the best decision of his life. It was terrifying, but risks usually were at the start. "You mentioned something about a toga."

Eames laughed and pulled him onto the bed. "Yes, your Worship."

 **THREE MONTHS LATER  
**  
Arthur dropped the box on top of the others lining the back of the sofa and dusted his hands with a relieved sigh. "That's the last one," he said.

Cobb was under the desk, already hooking up the cables for his gigantic television instead of unpacking things he might actually need, like clothing. "Thanks for your help, Arthur," he mumbled. "Can you hand me that USB cable? The one that goes to the DVR."

Thirty minutes later, Arthur finally escaped Mal and Cobb's new house only to run into Ariadne on the walk. She had a bottle of champagne in hand.

"Nice of you to show up after all the work is done," Arthur said wryly.

She smiled broadly. "'Never help friends move' is a good motto to have."

"Until it's time for _you_ to move."

She frowned for a moment and then shrugged, probably realizing she could snap her fingers and bring forth a herd of young men willing to help her move boxes and furniture. "Are you going home?"

"Yeah, I'm exhausted and covered in dust." He moved to walk around her and head for his car.

"Hey, Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about Eames."

He forced a smile and nodded before quickening his steps and practically jogging to his car. He really didn't want to talk about it again.

Arthur drove home, shed his filthy clothing, and took a long, hot shower. When he walked into the kitchen wearing only a towel, he was struck by the quiet. It seemed odd to be alone.

He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water—he needed to rehydrate after losing sweat humping Cobb's boxes all day long. Falling asleep on the couch was looking like his best option for the evening.

The front door opened suddenly. "Arthur?"

"In the kitchen," he called.

Eames strolled in and stopped short, eyes going wide as they took in Arthur's attire. Then a huge smile curved his lips. "Well, well, well. I didn't know it was my birthday. And you've already unwrapped my present and given it a lovely wash."

Arthur grinned and took another drink, intentionally allowing a trickle of water to leak past his lips and run down his throat and chest.

An instant later, Arthur found himself pressed back against the kitchen counter with Eames' hands beneath the towel and his mouth erasing all traces of water from his skin. Arthur buried one hand in Eames' hair while the other fumbled to set down the bottle without spilling it. "Missed you," he said with a sigh.

"Cobb all moved?" Eames asked as the towel fell to the floor. Arthur mentally tsked, knowing he would be the one to pick it up later and put it in the hamper.

"Yeah," he said and tipped his head back as Eames' mouth attacked his nipples with delicious determination. Arthur supposed he could live with his roommates' slovenly ways, since he obviously had other, more important, skills.

"Sorry I couldn't help, love. My last day to use the lab."

"I know. Ariadne tried to apologize again."

Eames snorted a laughed as he worked his way down to Arthur's navel. "Yeah, she was dreadful to me for an entire month. You should have told her right away that you were in love with me, instead of acting like I'd kidnapped and molested you."

Arthur's hands stilled in Eames' hair. Eames stopped pressing kisses into his skin and looked up with one brow cocked. "I mean, you are, yes?" Eames asked the question with a grin, giving Arthur a way out, if he chose to brush it off with a joke. Eames always gave Arthur an out.

"Yeah, I guess I am," Arthur admitted with only a hint of satisfaction at the knowledge that he seldom used Eames' offered escape routes.

Eames shot to his feet and enveloped Arthur in a bone-crushing hug. "Oh God, me too."

Arthur laughed, even though Eames reaction was making him feel a bit giddy. He clung to Eames' broad shoulders and felt the rough fabric of Eames' shirt—polka dotted today, for fuck's sake—and the hard length of his erection beneath faded jeans. "You're in love with yourself?" Arthur asked with a chuckle.

"With you, prat," Eames growled. "Now get that perfect arse in the bedroom and have it lubed and ready by the time I get out of the shower. Then the celebratory shagging will commence."

Eames stepped back and Arthur stayed where he was for a moment, long enough for Eames' eyes to take in his body and rigid cock. "Yes, your Worship," he said with a smirk and then sauntered into Eames' bedroom— _their_ bedroom for the past two weeks, ever since Arthur had moved in the last of his belongings.

He heard the shower turn on and spent the next five minutes tying his own wrists to the headboard as a special surprise for his boyfriend. His eyes strayed to the crown of leaves still dangling from the bedpost and once again thanked a simple toga for changing his life.

~END~

Author's Note: I'm not writing any more Inception fics. Except the other two I'm working on. And maybe a couple of others. *runs away*


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